“Now, see, that’s where you’re wrong. People love rabbits. They hate cats.”

  This was one weird rabbit, I thought. Dooley, who’d also emerged from behind the tire, seemed to think so, too, for he said, “I never met a cat-hating rabbit before.”

  “And I’m not the only one. All rabbits hate cats—and so do humans.”

  “No, they don’t. Our humans love cats,” said Dooley.

  “Huh,” said the rabbit. “Your humans must be weirdos.”

  “No, they’re not. They’re perfectly normal humans,” I said.

  “If they like cats there must be something wrong with them.”

  “They’re normal humans!” I cried. “And like all normal humans they love cats!”

  “Look, I’m not having this conversation,” said the rabbit. “You better clear out now before I call in the dogs.”

  “What has happened to you that you hate cats so much?” asked Dooley.

  The rabbit frowned. “I don’t understand the question. The whole world hates cats.”

  “No, it doesn’t!” I said.

  “You’re obviously delusional, cat. Of course it does. All life on this planet agrees on only one thing: that cats are the most loathsome creatures ever brought into this world.”

  “Who are you talking to, Alfie?” asked a muffled voice.

  “Stay where you are, Victorine,” said the rabbit. “It’s not safe out here.”

  A second rabbit rose up from the hole. Like its cat-hating friend, it was white and fluffy and looked harmless. When it caught sight of us, it even smiled. “Oh, hi, there, cats.”

  “Don’t talk to them, Victorine!” said Alfie. “You know we don’t talk to cats.”

  “Oh, don’t be rude, Alfie.” She gave us a look of apology. “Don’t mind Alfie, cats. Ever since he was attacked by a pack of wild cats he hasn’t been the same.” She turned to Alfie. “These are two perfectly nice cats, Alfie. Gentlecats. They’re not going to hurt you.”

  “Yeah, we’re nice cats, Alfie,” I echoed Victorine. “All we want from you is some information.”

  Dooley was eyeing the two rabbits with trepidation. “Did you say that a pack of wild cats attacked you?”

  “Yeah, there were at least a dozen of them,” said Victorine. “Vicious creatures. Not you, of course,” she quickly added. “You’re nice. Now what was it you wanted to know?”

  I repeated my request, and I could see this set the rabbits thinking. Alfie probably about calling in the dogs, but Victorine was actually contemplating my question.

  “I did see two men last night. They cut a hole in the fence. Before driving off.”

  “Don’t help them, Victorine!” her cat-hating mate implored. “We don’t help cats!”

  “Oh, shush,” she said kindly. “Um, one was short and one was tall. And the tall one had a little mustache and the short one had a very big nose. Like one of them strawberry noses. He also had a purple spot on his upper lip. I thought maybe he got stung by a bee.”

  “Or attacked by a cat,” Alfie growled.

  Now we were getting somewhere. “That’s great, Victorine,” I said. “Did you ever see these men before?”

  “Oh, no,” she said. “And I haven’t seen them since, either. Did you see them before, Alfie?”

  But Alfie was now engaged in a silent protest.

  “Oh, don’t be like that, Alfie. Not all cats are bad. These are two perfectly nice cats.”

  “I don’t like cats,” Alfie insisted, his fluffy tail twitching defiantly. “Any cats.”

  Victorine shook her head. “I’m afraid he’s become one of them whatchamacallits, um…” She thought for a moment, thumping her paw, then her face cleared. “A racist!”

  I’d never met an anti-cat racist rabbit before, so this was definitely a first. “Well, if it’s any consolation, there are some very nasty cats out there,” I said.

  “Darn tootin’ there are,” said Alfie.

  Victorine pursed her lips. “Still. No sense in tarring all cats with the same brush, is there? I’m sure there are more nice cats than nasty ones. And the same goes for rabbits.”

  “Hey!” said Alfie. “Don’t you go talking smack about your own kind!”

  “Oh, Alfie, you have got to admit that your mother can be quite a handful. Like when I brought her that perfectly good carrot yesterday and she told me it had mildew. Mildew!”

  “Okay, fine. My mother is a handful. But that doesn’t mean all rabbits are like her.”

  “And what about your seven million sisters? They’re always perfectly mean to me.”

  “All right. I’ll give you that. My sisters are absolute pests.”

  “Or your fifteen million brothers.”

  “I get it! You’ve made your point!”

  “And there was that time when your father called me a stuck-up little—”

  “Fine! I get it! Rabbits can be horrible meanies, too.”

  “And don’t get me started on your five million aunts.”

  “Hey, your family hasn’t exactly rolled out the red carpet for me, either!”

  “Don’t you say a bad thing about my family, Alfie!”

  Dooley and I kinda drifted off after that, feeling we didn’t need to be there for this domestic scene of spousal discord. We had the information we’d come here to find, and that was good enough for me.

  “I didn’t know rabbits could be racist, Max,” said Dooley as we walked away, the sounds of Victorine and Alfie arguing now growing distant.

  “I guess all animals can be racist,” I said.

  “Do you think flies are racist? Against bees, for instance?”

  “Probably so.”

  “And fleas against lice? Rats against mice? Cats against bats?”

  “You bet. I don’t even like bats. I think they’re creepy.”

  We were both silent for a moment while we contemplated this. Then Dooley said, “It’s a strange world out there, Max.”

  Truer words have never been spoken.

  Chapter 26

  Harriet wasn’t as keen to venture into the duck’s lair as she should have been. The truth of the matter was that this detective stuff was more Max’s thing. Creeping into duck farms at night, talking to ducks and dogs, sniffing out secrets and mysterious clues. It wasn’t really her bag. But since they’d already agreed to do this, she couldn’t back out now. Besides, Brutus liked a bit of action, and she didn’t want to let her hunky sweetums down.

  The part of the farm where the ducks were kept were these long, white clapboard one-story buildings. She could hear the quacking even as they approached, and had a hard time adjusting to the smell and the muck that was spread all around the ducks’ homes.

  She tried to put her paws down where no mud or—worse—duck poo covered the ground, but it was hard going. As a prissy and fastidious Persian, she hated getting her flawless white fur soiled, and this trip to the duck farm was proving a real challenge.

  Oh, how she wished she were home right now, blissfully resting her front paws on her human’s lap. Marge was the finest human a cat could wish for. Odelia wasn’t bad either, but she was too much of an amateur detective in Harriet’s view. Marge, who worked at the local library, was a real homebody, which was perfect for Harriet, for she was just the same.

  “Hey, you guys,” said Brutus now. “I think this is it. Do you smell that?”

  Harriet wrinkled her nose. “I’ve been smelling nothing else for the past half hour.”

  “Duck poop,” said Milo, who was proving himself to be somewhat of a poop specialist.

  “We better head on inside,” said Brutus. “And talk to those birds.”

  “Is a duck a bird?” asked Milo. “I’m not so sure.”

  “Of course they’re birds,” said Harriet, who’d grown to detest Milo. She hadn’t forgotten how he convinced her Dooley’s poop-smearing antics were a seduction technique.

  “There’s a growing consensus in the scientific community that ducks are actually small humans with wings.”

  Oh, this was rich. “Humans! Are you crazy? Ducks aren’t mammals!”

  “Actually, they are. They’re an ancient peoples, who lived on a small and sheltered island paradise, where they had developed a very sophisticated and technologically advanced society. They lived in peace and harmony for thousands of years, until a great cataclysm destroyed the island and forced them to evacuate. The creatures we now know as ducks are the descendants of that original society. Very sophisticated. Highly intelligent.”

  They were staring out across the stable, where thousands upon thousands of ducks were resting on a bed of straw. Softly quacking, they spread a distinct and musty odor.

  “They don’t look so sophisticated to me,” Brutus grunted skeptically.

  “They’re so intelligent our own intellect is too weak to grasp the message they’re trying to purvey,” said Milo. “These gentle creatures are way ahead of us. Way ahead.” He then directed a kindly glance at his compatriots. “Though you guys are the most intelligent felines I’ve ever encountered. Definitely a lot more intelligent than Max or Dooley.”

  “Well, that’s not so hard,” said Brutus with a grin.

  Harriet gave her mate a critical look. Had he already forgotten who they were dealing with? Milo’s modus operandi seemed to be to turn cats against each other.

  “Especially you, Brutus,” said Milo now, placing a paw on the black cat’s shoulder. “You’re probably the smartest one of the bunch. Handsome, intelligent, kind, with a big heart and a noble character. A real leader, in fact.”

  “I’m glad someone finally noticed,” Brutus grunted.

  “And I’m surprised Max doesn’t appreciate you more.”

  “Well, Max is… Max, I guess,” said Brutus. “He’s been here longer than me.”

  “That’s no excuse. You’re clearly leadership material, Brutus. You should be the one in charge.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” said Brutus. “Max is a great friend. But he probably shouldn’t try to do everything himself. I’ve told him over and over again he should delegate more.”

  “Not delegate. Acknowledge your strength and relinquish the crown he’s taken.”

  “Brutus,” said Harriet crossly. “Can I have a word with you in private?”

  “Later, petal. Milo is saying some very interesting things here.”

  “Brutus. Now!” she snapped, and stalked off to a corner of the stable.

  Brutus followed reluctantly. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “He’s doing it again!” she loud-whispered. “He’s setting you up against Max!”

  “No, he’s not. He’s just pointing out a few facts. Facts I happen to agree with.”

  “He’s sucking up to you!”

  “Hey, he’s telling the truth.”

  “Oh, Brutus,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  Then she saw how Milo had stalked over to a small group of ducks and was now holding forth on something, the ducks all listening intently.

  “What is he doing?” she asked.

  “How should I know? Probably speaking in ancient duck.”

  “That duck story sounded a lot like the Wonder Woman story,” said Harriet.

  “I didn’t like that movie. It had no cats in it.”

  They snuck closer and listened in.

  “Thank you so much, dear ones,” Milo was saying. “I owe you a debt of gratitude. Now remember what I told you about Farmer Potbelly.”

  “Yeah, he can’t keep us locked up in here,” said one of the ducks.

  “He’s a dictator and a tyrant and we’re not going to take this anymore!” said another duck, who seemed like a very excitable one.

  “Rise up!” said a squat duck. “Rise up, brethren and sistren! The revolution is here!”

  “Spread the word!” an elderly duck croaked. “Spread the word far and wide.”

  And spread the word, they did. Before long, the stable was abuzz with revolutionary chatter.

  “Looks like Potbelly is in big trouble,” said Brutus.

  “You see?” said Harriet. “This is what he does. He’s a hate speaker.”

  Brutus stared at her. “I don’t know what that is.”

  “He incites hatred! Stirs up all kinds of trouble just for the heck of it.”

  Brutus scratched himself behind the ear. He looked sheepish. “I guess you’re right.”

  “Of course I’m right. Don’t listen to him, Brutus. From now on we stick to Max’s plan.”

  “Max’s plan,” scoffed Brutus, who seemed to have been infected by Milo’s talk.

  “Our plan,” said Harriet, placing a kindly paw on Brutus’s shoulder.

  He nodded reluctantly. “Fine. We stick to the plan.”

  It was obvious Harriet would have to keep an eye on her mate. He seemed very susceptible to Milo’s brand of nonsense. More so than any other cat in their coterie.

  Chapter 27

  “So? What have you found out?” asked Odelia the moment the cats were back. When she saw them coming she’d opened the door and they immediately hopped in.

  “That the farm was robbed by two guys, one short with a strawberry nose and a purple spot on his lip, the other tall with a little mustache,” said Max, who was the first to speak.

  A pervasive smell of duck permeated the car and Odelia wrinkled her nose. “That’s great! Did the ducks tell you that?”

  “No, the wife of a cat-hating racist rabbit,” said Dooley.

  “And we discovered that Wonder Woman is a duck,” said Harriet.

  “And that Max is a great leader,” said Brutus, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

  Odelia decided not to go down that particular rabbit hole. “Uh-huh. Interesting.”

  Milo was uncharacteristically quiet, and in the silence Odelia thought she could hear furious quacking. And when she squinted in the darkness, she thought she could see lights flash on all around the Potbelly farm. “What’s going on down there?” she asked.

  “I think we better get out of here,” said Harriet, shuffling uneasily.

  “Why? What happened? Did they find out you were in there?”

  “They might have,” said Harriet.

  There was a lot of commotion on the farm, Odelia now saw. People moving about and plenty of ducks, too. They seemed to be flocking together, moving as one flock of ducks away from their stable and in the direction of the houses the Potbellies had erected.

  “Looks like the ducks are moving towards their owners’ houses,” said Odelia, surprised.

  “Rise up,” Milo muttered softly. “Oh, rise up, ye mighty race.”

  Odelia directed an odd look at Milo, then figured she’d better heed Harriet’s advice and return home. Whatever was going on at that farm, it was probably better if she wasn’t discovered lurking around.

  During the ride home, the silence that had descended upon the car stretched on. She didn’t mind. She had some thinking to do about the murder case, and she figured her cats were probably tired from all that traipsing around on the Potbelly farm.

  Soon enough they were home and she let them out of the car again. They walked in a straight line, still cloaked in silence, then into the house and to their respective perches. All of them except for Max and Dooley, who were off to choir practice as usual.

  And as she was about to close the door, the tall figure of a man walked up to her. When he stepped into the light cast by the streetlamp in front of her door, she saw it was Chase. He watched as Milo walked into the house, tail up, followed by Brutus and Harriet.

  “Now there’s something you don’t see every day,” said Chase as he casually leaned against the doorframe. “I always thought cats didn’t need to be taken for a walk, only dogs.”

  “My cats are special,” she blurted out.

  “That, they are,” he said with a slight grin.

  “How long have you been out here?” she asked, noticing his parked pickup.

  “Not that long. Half an hour, maybe. I tried calling but got your voicemail.”

  Shoot. She’d turned off her phone when she set out for the farm. “I must have forgotten to switch it on again.”

  He leaned in and took a sniff at her hair. “Smells familiar. In fact there’s only one place I can think of that ships out this particular scent in bulk.” He fixed her with a curious look. “Any particular reason you decided to go snooping around a duck farm at night?”

  “I… just wanted to have another look at the farm—spend some time thinking.”

  “So you didn’t go inside?”

  “The cats might have. I just let them out of the car and let them wander about.”

  “You’re such a terrible liar, Poole.”

  “I’m not lying! I sat there, in my car, thinking about the case, and I figured since I was driving anyway, I might as well bring the cats along. For company. And because they like it.”

  “And how would you know what your cats like and don’t like? Do you speak cat?”

  It was such a direct question she almost replied in the affirmative. But then her sense of self-preservation kicked in and she laughed lightly. “Speak cat? Very funny, Chase.”

  He gave her that cop look again, as if trying to figure out if she was telling the truth. She projected as innocent and careless a look as she could manage, which was a little hard as he was a very good cop, and he could look in a very piercing way when he wanted to. Finally, he relaxed. “So what do you think? Any bright ideas?”

  “I think we should talk to some more people tomorrow.”

  “Very clever, Poole. Now why didn’t I think of that?”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “And while I was out there I met a source who gave me a description of the two men who burgled that farm. One was short with a strawberry nose and a purple spot on his upper lip, the other tall with a small mustache. That ring a bell, Kingsley?”

  The moment she’d said it, she regretted it.

  “Source? What source?”

  “You know I can’t disclose my sources, Chase.”

  He gave her a withering look. “I disclose mine, so I don’t see why you shouldn’t disclose yours.”

  “I’m a reporter. My sources trust me to keep their identity confidential.”